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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23882902">Eight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonsGirlFriday/pseuds/RonsGirlFriday'>RonsGirlFriday</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Child Death, Community: HPFT, Depression, Drama, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Infant Death, Marriage, Parenthood, SIDS, Seriously This is Sad, Triggers, trigger warning</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:07:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,255</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23882902</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonsGirlFriday/pseuds/RonsGirlFriday</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p><br/>.<br/>Bill Weasley was not the first.<br/>Neither was Fred.<br/>.<br/><em>For the Make TreacleTart Cry Challenge at HPFT</em><br/><em>Please note the trigger warnings.</em></p>
</div>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arthur Weasley/Molly Weasley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Eight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <em>
    <br/>
    <strong>Please beware the trigger warning: infant death (SIDS) and death of a child.</strong>
    <br/>
  </em>
  <br/>
  <em>"Why in the hell would you write this?" Well, it was for a challenge and was one of the saddest things I could think of, so here we are. I decided to share it because I think it's a decent bit of writing. But, yes, it's depressing subject matter, there's no way around it. I am genuinely sorry for doing this to Molly and Arthur.</em>
</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/>
<hr/>
<p>
  <strong>1969</strong>
</p>
<p>One.</p>
<p>The number of times you’ve broken your wand (it was Gideon who provoked you). The number of times you’ve served detention (it was all Bilius’s fault).</p>
<p>The number of dates it took you to decide that you would marry Arthur Weasley someday. The number of bedrooms in your first home together. The number of men in your life before June 17, 1969.</p>
<p>The number of seconds it took you to fall in love with him -- his fluffy red hair and bright blue eyes (you always knew he’d look like Arthur, but that’s a Prewett nose if you ever saw one). The number of arguments before Arthur caved and agreed to the name you wanted (you’ve promised William will be the next).</p>
<p>Edward.</p>
<p>There will be many, you both agree, but he is number one. The number of suns in the sky.</p>
<p>Your mother says you were meant for more than this life -- married at eighteen, a baby already -- but you always knew better than Mum, anyway. You never knew true love until now.</p>
<p>How is it possible that a life so large can be contained in a body so small? You were never one for Divination, but now you See, as clearly as in the pages of any book, the lifetime stretching before him -- a vast ocean whose depth and width you can’t even begin to measure. Devoted elder brother, Head Boy like his father; popular like Uncle Gideon, patient like Uncle Fabian, witty like Uncle Godfrey (but let’s leave Bilius out of this, the prat). Order of Merlin, Minister for Magic, Headmaster, Chief Warlock -- there’s nothing he can’t do. Young Eddie seems to know this as well as you; a contented, peaceful child, he sleeps like a dream, and when he’s awake he regards you with bright, curious eyes. You want all these things and more for him, though when he wraps his fingers around yours, a part of you wishes that he’d stay this way forever. You’ve never felt more like yourself than you do now.</p>
<p>Arthur’s taken to fatherhood like a dragon to the sky, and you find he’s never been more charming. You never did care about Quidditch, but you’re enraptured when you find him holding your child in his arms, explaining the finer points of the sport. By the time Eddie is four months old, you can recite more facts than you ever wanted to know about the Cannons going back nearly fifty years, hanging as you have been on every word falling from your husband’s lips to your son’s ears. What have you ever done to deserve such perfection?</p>
<p>It doesn’t register as odd when you awake one morning, that he hasn’t cried for the past six hours; he’s such an easy baby (you’re lucky, your friend Ursula complains; her son Eustace is a colicky child).</p>
<p>But you know the second you approach the cot, that something is terribly wrong. He should not be that still; he should not be that color.</p>
<p>He should not be this limp.</p>
<p>He should be breathing.</p>
<p>Your knees should not be giving out beneath you.</p>
<p>“Arthur.”</p>
<p>Your voice should not be failing you.</p>
<p>
  <em>“Arthur!”</em>
</p>
<p>You’ve never seen him move so fast.</p>
<p>You’re useless, you’re pointless, a downright disgrace, clinging to the rail of the cot to stay upright as your husband tries to breathe life back into your son. It’s all you can do to grasp his sleeve as he Apparates you to St. Mungo’s, still in your slippers and pyjamas. It’s a cold October and you’ve forgotten a coat, but you’re already numb anyway.</p>
<p>How many people must you speak to? How many times must you retell this nightmare? How much longer must you bury your child with your words before someone will give you an answer?</p>
<p>Any answer but <em>that</em> one.</p>
<p>It’s a wonder Arthur’s legs still work, but he catches you when yours don’t.</p>
<p>Did you feed him enough? Did you feed him too much? Did you sleep through him crying in the night?</p>
<p>What do they mean, they <em>‘don’t know why’?</em></p>
<p>Was the house too warm? Was it too cold? Did he need you in the night? You’d give anything to hear him cry.</p>
<p>What do they mean, <em>‘this just happens’?</em></p>
<p>Was it the way you laid him in his cot? You swear you did it exactly as your mother showed you…</p>
<p>You never realized they made caskets this small.</p>
<p>Your husband doesn’t mention it when you remove the smallest hand from the clock; neither of you does. You wonder why that dimwit even put it on there in the first place (he thought he was being funny; a baby is always at home). You give serious thought to destroying the entire damned setup, but it was a gift from your grandmother when she learned you had married -- “To keep track of your husband,” she joked with a twinkle in her eye.</p>
<p>You don’t touch your husband for months.</p>
<p>You can’t decide whether this is his fault or yours, but somebody must be to blame. You hate him for being able to function every day, to go to work and earn a wage -- what sort of monster is he?</p>
<p>You consider leaving, and you pack a bag while he’s at work one day but collapse halfway to the door. Where would you go? Who would have you now? Your guilt is written in the lines that shouldn’t crease your face at the age of nineteen, in the stubborn weight you can’t shed even though you hardly eat these days, the evidence of what you’ve lost.</p>
<p>He says it kills him to see you this way. What does he know of dying? He didn’t carry your child; his body didn’t form the imperfect creature that didn’t last six months -- it’s the only answer you’ve been able to settle on that allows you any sleep (<em>what do they mean, they ‘don’t know why’??</em>). You are a failure and you deserve every second of this pain. You offer him a divorce and he doesn’t speak to you for two weeks.</p>
<p>You are blindingly lonely.</p><hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>1970</strong>
</p>
<p>One.</p>
<p>The number of being alone.</p>
<p>The number of times you need to ask him, in a moment of weakness, to put his hands on your body again, before he obliges. The number of women for him, he says, and it’s you (you almost believe it). The number of times you’ve ever seen him cry before tonight (it was the day Eddie died).</p>
<p>You are not quite whole, but you are no longer split in two. Your skin burns where it has touched his, the sheets are drenched in sweat, your hair sticks to your neck as his sticks to his forehead. You’re exhausted and drowsy, but he seems to have made it his mission to repeat “Molly, I love you” one million times, and you don’t want to miss a word. You watch, entranced, as his long, slender fingers dance with yours -- you’ve always hated your fingers; they, like everything else on you, are a little too plump, though he’s always said he loves it. He proves it now by kissing them each in turn before trailing kisses over your face and neck and everywhere; before either of you knows it, you’re on round three, and you never want this night to end.</p>
<p>Nine months later, there is one.</p>
<p>His name is William, and he is perfect, and you are scared out of your goddamn mind.</p><hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>1976</strong>
</p>
<p>Three.</p>
<p>The number of weeks (nearly) that your mother didn’t speak to you after she’d learned you and Arthur had eloped.</p>
<p>Bill’s age when you first allowed Arthur to buy him a broom (you’re sorry, you couldn’t help being terrified). Never one to be left behind, Charlie demanded to fly as well. You’re almost accustomed now to the bumps and bruises, though your heart stops every time they fall.</p>
<p>The number of funerals you’ve ever attended: one was Eddie’s, one your grandfather’s, and the most recent was Deirdre Nott. Your schoolmate’s death is the closest the war has ever come to touching your life (you do suspect Gideon and Fabian are involved in something, but they’ll never confirm; and they tell you not to worry yourself and to give the boys their love).</p>
<p>What are you doing? What were you thinking? This is no world to bring children into. Are you selfish for doing this? You never imagined things would get <em>this</em> bad.</p>
<p>And Eddie still haunts your dreams and your waking thoughts, and you ask yourself whether you’re tempting fate. Bill’s first year was agony for your soul; you expected the worst every night and hardly ever slept, and Charlie’s first year was no better. They’re happy and healthy, but good fortune never lasts forever.</p>
<p>Percy is born during the hottest summer England has ever seen, but while the rest of the country despairs, you do not. You cannot. You’re thinking sensibly once again: nothing about this is wrong. There is nothing selfish in the way you love these boys. Percy is perfect, and nothing will ever touch him or any of them — you will not allow it.</p><hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>1978</strong>
</p>
<p>Five.</p>
<p>The number of NEWTs you received (your mother still reminds you of this occasionally, still asks you why you gave up the world to become a housewife; she simply doesn’t understand).</p>
<p>The number of funerals you’ve attended in the past year alone. One was Ursula’s husband; you offered to mind Eustace a few days so she could fall to pieces without guilt, but she was unwilling to let him out of her sight (you don’t blame her; you’d be the same, though you shudder to think about it).</p>
<p>The number of times since Percy was born that you’ve visited Eddie’s grave (you’re so sorry, it’s just so hard with three little ones, and Arthur’s working overtime nearly every day). You hope he doesn’t think you’ve forgotten him.</p>
<p>Five was a surprise — you were only expecting four — but when Fred and George are born you know it could never have been any other way. The way they touch and babble together in their cot, it’s clear that one is not himself without the other.</p>
<p>Five is perfect; five is right; and you’re slowly learning how not to be afraid.</p><hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>1981</strong>
</p>
<p>Seven.</p>
<p>The number of generations since a Weasley girl has been born (Septimus proudly tells anyone who will listen).</p>
<p>The number of days after Ginny’s birth that Gideon and Fabian were killed. You hold yourself together for your children (but Charlie’s looking so much like young Fabian these days that it aches every time you look at him).</p>
<p>The number of excruciating hours you wait for Arthur to return home from work, the day you hear of the horror in Godric’s Hollow. When he does, you collapse in his arms, every doubt and fear you’ve successfully repressed rearing its head once again.</p>
<p>“Why would anybody want to kill a baby?” Is nothing sacred? Is nothing safe?</p>
<p>You hold it together for your children, but Arthur holds it together for you; and you wonder when he will tire of doing so, but somehow he never does.</p>
<p>Tonight you check on each of your children as they sleep, as if to confirm they’re all still there.</p>
<p>Ronnie and Ginny draw peaceful, even breaths in their cots. One, two.</p>
<p>George giggles at something in his dreams. Three.</p>
<p>“Lemme do it, Georgie,” mumbles Fred without waking. Four.</p>
<p>Percy has sneaked out of his room again to fall asleep next to Bill. Five, six.</p>
<p>Charlie is sprawled sideways across his bed, the covers kicked onto the floor. Seven.</p>
<p>You check twice more before you allow yourself to go to bed. Arthur doesn’t need to ask why you’re crying.</p>
<p>The war is over, and there are seven.</p><hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>1991</strong>
</p>
<p>Seven.</p>
<p>Your two eldest have gone off to see the world, and somehow the house feels emptier than when they were at school. You were a nervous wreck when Bill went first, but he’s been good about writing home; you know Charlie will be more forgetful -- but then, he does tend to be easily distracted.</p>
<p>Out of sight is never out of mind, and you think of them every hour of every day. You watch the clock, see them safely from Work to Home, though Home doesn’t mean what it once did. It drove you mad in the beginning, and Arthur had to threaten to take down the clock entirely, but you swear you’re getting better about it, slowly learning to let go.</p>
<p>It’s easier now to visit Eddie, though you don’t do it as much as you should. A sense of peace that you never thought possible has settled upon that part of your heart, borne of the beautiful storm around you. Scraped knees, broken arms, arguments, school supplies, OWLs and NEWTs, detentions… it’s so much easier to fret about the living.</p>
<p>Seven beds will be empty when Ginny goes to school, and you’ll hardly know who you are when you’re not tucking somebody in.</p><hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>1995</strong>
</p>
<p>Six.</p>
<p>Percy won’t open the door to his flat, but you hardly need to see him to know what face he’s making. It’s the same one his father makes when he thinks he’s right about something and refuses to listen to reason -- the same one he makes when you return home today, disappointed.</p>
<p>Your husband is a proud fool, and God help you, you were always attracted to it, but now it’s costing you your child.</p>
<p>“Fix it, Arthur. I mean it.” You can’t even look at him.</p>
<p>“Molly, he’s a grown man, he made the decis--”</p>
<p>“So help me, if you ever want me to speak to you again, you will find a way.”</p>
<p>Weeks turn to months, and he doesn’t find a way, but you swallow your own pride and forgive him. The ice thaws, and he is still your husband, though now there is another hole in your heart; a new, sharp pain where there has been a dull ache for more than two decades. You’ve never forgotten the first, but it’s been quiet, surrounded as you have been by love and laughter and utter chaos.</p>
<p>They’re not comparable, not even close, and you’re ashamed to even think it. But it hurts so badly, in a way you never would have thought possible; and in the middle of the night when your house is still and quiet, the wretched notion invades your mind: that Eddie did not choose to leave you… but Percy did.</p><hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>1998</strong>
</p>
<p>Seven.</p>
<p>Percy is back, and Charlie is coming, but nothing about this is happy.</p>
<p>Seven.</p>
<p>This should not have been their war.</p>
<p>Seven.</p>
<p>This should not have been their life. This should not have been their burden.</p>
<p>Bill’s face is scarred; Ginny’s is, too -- you will surely murder somebody today. Percy and Ron have lost far too much weight; Fred and George have circles under their eyes and they no longer look like the young men they are. Someone will pay for doing this to your children.</p>
<p>Seven scatter when the battle begins, and each time you catch a glimpse of red hair dodging a hex, your stomach leaps into your throat. The only thing qualifying you for this fight is your unbridled rage, and it’s all you can do to focus, focus, focus, Molly, do now, worry later --</p>
<p>Was that...? Was that who you think it was?</p>
<p>It was; it was Ginny (you told her to stay in the damned room!)</p>
<p>When the ceasefire is called, you place your hands on your knees to catch your breath, and all you can think is, <em>Where are they?</em></p>
<p>Seven. They’re here somewhere.</p>
<p>Here are George, Charlie, and Ginny (you’ll yell at her later).</p>
<p>
  <em>Where are they?</em>
</p>
<p>Here are Percy and Bill; their eyes are red, but then, whose aren’t?</p>
<p>“Mum…”</p>
<p>
  <em>Where are they?</em>
</p>
<p>Ron will be with Harry; how in the heavens are you to ever find them?</p>
<p>“Mum.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Where are they?</em>
</p>
<p>Bill seems intent on blocking your view of the room.</p>
<p>“Mum, I need you to sit down.”</p>
<p>“I’m fine, dear -- ”</p>
<p>Percy stands a short distance away, fist clenched in front of his mouth, the poor thing looking like he’s moments away from being sick (he always was the most delicate of your boys).</p>
<p>“Mum, please sit down -- ”</p>
<p>“We’ve got to find your brothers, and Harry -- ”</p>
<p>
  <em>“Mum, goddammit, sit down!”</em>
</p>
<p>He’s never sounded that way before. But though it stops you in your tracks, it’s too little and too late, and as you notice the body now being levitated into the room, you don’t register a word of what Bill is saying. </p>
<p>You know that hair… you know that shirt… you know that nose (a Prewett nose if ever you did see one)...</p>
<p>You know that little boy.</p>
<p>But he should not be that still...</p>
<p>He should not be this limp...</p>
<p>He should be breathing.</p>
<p>This can’t be happening again.</p>
<p>This time, Arthur’s legs do not work.</p><hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>1998</strong>
</p>
<p>Six.</p>
<p>The number of pallbearers. The number of times you’ve felt you would collapse just trying to leave the house. The number of hours (it feels like) you’ve slept in the past week.</p>
<p>The casket is larger this time. <em>How</em> can you be here again?</p>
<p>You fight against the darkness, though it feels like you’re still losing. (Did it hurt this much when Eddie died? How on earth did you survive it?) All you can think is that there are six who still need you -- and hasn’t Arthur carried you enough for one lifetime?</p>
<p>Six.</p>
<p>Six feels wrong. Six feels like panic. Six feels like one breath short of breathing.</p>
<p>Days turn to weeks, and you count your ducklings, over and over and over again, because the count refuses to feel right.</p>
<p>Bill’s eyes seem to be permanently red. One.</p>
<p>Charlie’s been quieter than you’ve ever known him to be. Two.</p>
<p>Ron has started to regain some of his weight. Three.</p>
<p>Percy has not. Four.</p>
<p>George refuses to come out of his room. Five.</p>
<p>Ginny screams in the middle of the night. Six.</p>
<p>You don’t know how to reconcile with this new truth: You have six children. It hasn’t been true since 1981. Even when Percy left, you realize, it wasn’t true, not really, not like this (you’re ashamed you ever thought it). He still reached for his glasses on the nightstand every morning; he still burnt his toast on accident; he still fell asleep every night with a book open on his chest. You saw all of these things, even when he wasn’t there, as clearly as ever in your mind. Seven hearts still beat.</p>
<p>But now there are six.</p>
<p>Arthur watches you closely (isn’t he tired of carrying you?) and one day when he catches you deep in thought he begs you to talk to him, to say anything.</p>
<p>You know you shouldn’t -- it’s wrong, and he’ll hate you for saying it -- but you can’t help it. It’s the only thing on your mind.</p>
<p>“Six...”</p>
<p>It’s an anguished whisper, and you can’t even meet his eyes as he removes the photograph from your hands.</p>
<p>“Molly…”</p>
<p>Shaking his head, he pushes your hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ears (a young man’s gesture, but it suits him), and plants a slow kiss on your forehead. He draws you to him, a touch your heart knew you needed even while your mind refused to see it.</p>
<p>His voice is a fervent whisper in your ear.</p>
<p>“Eight, my love. Eight.”</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <em>I am endlessly grateful to Carl (pookha) and Melian at HPFT for beta-ing this.</em>
</p>
<p>  <em>SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrome) -- aka cot death (UK) or crib death (US) -- had only just become a recognized/named entity around 1969/1970 and was not, to my knowledge, officially used on death certificates until 1971.</em></p>
<p>  <em>By 4 months, many babies can, in fact, sleep through the night (6-8 hours), so certainly no insinuation is being made in the beginning of this story that Molly missed something crucial that night.</em></p>
<p>  <em>According to my research, summer 1976 was the worst heat wave on record in England (as of that time, anyway -- later surpassed in the 2000's). I just thought that was an interesting tidbit as I was writing this.</em></p>
<p>  <em>Comments are always appreciated.</em></p></blockquote></div></div>
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